by Ian Smith
7
Sterling closely trailed Stangle's flashing cruiser through the narrow streets of Dartmouth's campus. They slowed down when they reached the expansive green in the middle of town, then took a series of turns before speeding past stately Baker Library. It was now eleven o'clock in the morning and the campus was waking up with a big yawn from the previous night's parties. The studious lugged heavy backpacks through the library's revolving doors, while others had squeezed into their spandex leggings and oversized sweatshirts to jog in small packs along the quiet roads.
Sterling took in the old buildings, their bricks recently washed, the wood boasting a fresh coat of white paint. As much as he preferred the jagged New York skyline and its imposing towers, he couldn't help but admire Hanover's rustic beauty and wholesome charm. While he had never visited the campus before, he had seen its picturesque vistas many times on the postcards that Wilson had sent home. Their mother had displayed them prominently. What Sterling found astonishing was that the campus was actually more pristine and majestic than the postcards had indicated.
Captain Stangle turned his sirens off, but kept the lights flashing as he made several turns down the sandy roads and approached a cluster of understated buildings. The modest sign on the lawn announced DARTMOUTH MEDICAL SCHOOL, 1786. Like most research buildings, these had been built for efficiency and practicality rather than for design—slabs of pale concrete piled carelessly on crumbling brick and large rusted beams.
They drove down a small incline to the back of the buildings and entered a deserted parking lot. A hundred yards or so into the lot, Sterling counted eight green-and-white cruisers. They were parked in front of an abandoned lime green parking structure that looked like it was begging for the wrecking ball.
Sterling stopped near the auditorium and surveyed the moss-ravaged brick and the two entrances, one on each side of the building. A walking bridge connected the auditorium to the bigger maze of ugly buildings.
He eased the Mustang toward the flashing lights and pocketed his small black-leather book before joining Stangle and the other officers. The cruisers belonged to both the Hanover Police Department and Dartmouth Security.
“Morning, Cap'n,” one of the Hanover officers called out to Stangle as he approached the group. He was the shortest of the eight men, but had the cocky swagger of a man in charge.
“Well, Serge, it looks like the sun might be kind enough to keep us warmer today,” Stangle said. Talking about the weather was the way most people began their conversations in these cold mountains, even when there was a serious matter at hand. “This is Agent Sterling Bledsoe. FBI. He'll be leading the investigation from their end. He's also the Professor's brother.”
“Lieutenant Sergio Wiley from the Hanover Police Department,” the short man said, offering a stiff right hand. He was even smaller up close, but his grip was firm. His face was serious, and unlike the other men, who wore big felt Stetson hats, he wore a dark blue Red Sox hat. The visor had been curled in the front the way the college students liked to sport their lids. A heavy black mustache hid his upper lip, and for a minute, Sterling thought it could've been fake. Wiley's compact body showed off a web of knotted muscles, straining the uniform across his chest. Sterling guessed he had been a wrestler in his younger days.
“Glad to meet you,” Sterling replied. “Just wish it could've been under better circumstances.”
“We all do,” Wiley replied. “Your brother's a star on this campus, Agent Bledsoe. Never met him myself, but my neighbor's son took one of his courses a few years back and hasn't stopped talking about it since.”
“Wilson's a good man,” Sterling agreed. He suddenly felt an incredible urge to cry. “There must be some explanation for this.”
Wiley got down to business. “One of the security officers spotted the car on his rounds earlier this morning. He didn't make much of it at first, because it's not uncommon for the medical students and faculty to leave their cars here over the weekend when they're carpooling out of town.”
Sterling looked at the red Mercedes. He and Wilson hadn't spoken much over the years, but he vividly remembered their conversation about this car. Wilson had found it in the classifieds and purchased it from a doctor's widow in Windsor, Vermont, some thirty miles away. Poor eyesight had finally forced the old woman to give up her license, so she decided to sell the car. Before she signed the papers, she made Wilson promise that he would be mindful of the car's upkeep, something her husband had placed second only to the care of his patients. The car had only thirty-five thousand original miles on it, and the interior was in mint condition. Wilson would carry on about it for hours if you let him. Sterling glanced at the tires. The rims were shiny and except for a few splotches where mud had dried, the whitewalls looked like they had just been scrubbed. A smile flickered across Sterling's lips, then died. Keeping their cars spotless was one trait the Bledsoe men shared.
“When did the security officer first notice the car?” Sterling asked. He kept his eyes on the Mercedes.
“Oh three hundred this morning,” Wiley returned. “There's not much activity back here, so they only make rounds every three hours. They do more patrols on the other parts of the campus where most people come and go.”
“May I?” Sterling asked, nodding in the direction of the Mercedes.
“Sure, but don't touch it yet,” Wiley said. “We're still waiting for state to come down and scrub for prints.”
“Can't someone from your department lift the prints?”
“We could, but our guy is away this weekend,” Wiley said. It seemed to embarrass him to admit there was only one man on the force who was proficient at dusting for prints. “State guys have more experience anyway.”
“Understood,” Sterling said. “There's a camera posted on the corner of one of the buildings back there,” he said, kneeling down and examining the rear tires. “Does it work?”
Wiley and Stangle looked back at Kellogg Auditorium, then at each other. Wiley turned to one of the officers. “What's the surveillance back here?” he barked as if it was his idea.
“Not much beyond the patrols,” one of the officers responded. He had a buzz cut that made his head look like it was covered in spikes and a stomach that hung so low he probably had to lift it to reach his belt buckle.
Sterling flipped on his back and examined underneath the car. “Anyone have a flashlight?” he asked. One of the officers placed a long metal light in his open hand. “Now can someone give me a definitive answer about that camera back there?”
Lieutenant Wiley shot a hard look at the buzz cut. “I'll have to check into that,” the officer mumbled. He waddled to his patrol car and picked up the radio.
Sterling stood and slowly traced the car from the trunk to the hood. He took his time, knowing that most mistakes were made in the beginning of an investigation. He learned early in his career that being overly eager often resulted in missing the small details. Patience, at the right time in an investigation, could be an important ally.
“Can I get a pair of gloves?” Sterling asked.
Wiley motioned to one of the officers, who ran to his cruiser and returned with a pair.
They were a little tight, but Sterling eventually got them on. He walked to the front of the car and placed the back of his hands on the hood. He alternated them in methodical fashion until he had covered every inch.
“A cold engine and no forced entry.” Sterling announced. Now he was squatting next to the door handle.
“But why would the Professor leave the keys in the ignition?” Stangle wondered aloud.
“Who said he did?” Sterling shot back. “There could be a million reasons why those keys are locked in this car, and him leaving them there is the least likely. Wilson loved this car.” Sterling peered through the passenger-side window. “There's something on the floor,” he said. “It's stuck between the seat and the door.” He flashed the light through the window. The others gathered around. “I can't make out much of it from here, but it lo
oks like the antenna of a cell phone.”
Sterling looked at his watch and tightened his lips. It was a few minutes before noon. Wilson had been missing for almost seventeen hours and there hadn't been any calls from either him or anyone who might have seen something. Not good. “All done here,” Sterling announced, handing the flashlight to Wiley. “Captain Stangle, how can I get to my brother's house without going down River Road?”
“There's a way higher up in the mountains that comes around the back of his property.”
Sterling turned and faced Wiley. “Does President Mortimer know about my brother's disappearance?”
“He was informed at six this morning,” Wiley answered. “It won't be easy, but we're trying to keep a lid on it for at least twenty-four hours. It'll give us time to get some answers before getting the campus all worked up.”
“Makes sense,” Sterling agreed. He started walking to his car, then turned back. “One more question, Lieutenant. If the security officer first spotted the car at three this morning and he makes a lap back here every three hours, then why didn't you guys hear about it till now?”
Wiley was prepared. “It wasn't until his third patrol at nine that the officer noticed the car didn't have a sticker. All cars that park in this lot must have a faculty sticker or they get ticketed. When the officer put the ticket on the window, he noticed the keys were still in the ignition, so he called the security office to have it towed. At approximately ten thirty, when the tow truck arrived, our dispatcher picked up the tow order over the radio. She knew that we were looking for Professor Bledsoe's car and the call fit the description. Our men were here within minutes.”
Sterling looked around the parking lot, then something caught his eye. He walked back to the front of the Mercedes and knelt down. He was tracing something in the sand with his fingers. “Tire tracks,” he said. “Wide enough for a truck. You might want to see if these match any over on River Road, Lieutenant. No way in hell Wilson voluntarily parked his car in the back of an empty lot with the keys still in the ignition.”
Sterling walked to the Mustang with Stangle and Wiley following.
“Ready to go?” Captain Stangle asked.
“Yeah, but before I go to the house, I'd like to stop by Wilson's lab. I want to see inside his office.” Sterling opened the door to his car and slid in.
“I'll take him,” Wiley volunteered. “That was my next stop anyway.”
Sterling knew that Wilson spent most of his time in his lab. He was confident that it would be the right place to start searching for the real evidence. The Mustang's rear wheels spun and kicked up a cloud of dust as he left the parking lot. He was convinced that someone in this small town must've seen or heard something, and as they often said in the Bureau, it would only be a matter of time before the clues started talking.
8
A Dartmouth Security officer dutifully guarded Wilson Bledsoe's locked laboratory. He stood with his thin arms folded across his chest, his chin slightly tucked back as if he were trying to suppress a cough. The solemn click of heels on newly waxed tile caught his attention.
“G'morning, Lieutenant Wiley,” the officer said. He straightened his back as if he had spent some time in the military. Sterling was waiting for him to salute, but he didn't.
“Morning, Carlton,” Wiley snapped. “This here is Agent Sterling Bledsoe. FBI. He's in from New York City.” Wiley took his time pronouncing the last bit. It wasn't every day that they met someone from the big city, especially law enforcement.
“Couldn't've picked a better day to visit us here in the mountains,” Carlton said, flashing a smile full of perfect teeth. “They say it's gonna climb into the seventies.”
Lieutenant Wiley rocked back on his heels impatiently. “Carlton Gilly, Agent Bledsoe is Professor Bledsoe's brother. This is not a social call.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” Carlton stumbled. Sterling nodded his head in acceptance.
“Has anyone been in yet?” Wiley asked. He spoke in the deep, commanding voice of a man twice his size.
“Only a student came by,” Carlton said. “It must've been six or seven in the morning. She told me that she worked here in the lab as a research assistant.”
“Did you catch her name?” Sterling asked.
Carlton looked up at the ceiling and squinted his eyes till they were slits. Sterling noticed the length of his nose. It would've been a perfect diving board for a bead of sweat. “Not really,” Carlton said. “But she was a good-looking girl, if you know what I mean. She showed me her ID, but the name just didn't stick with me. Helen or Heather—something like that.”
Sterling scribbled in his black book. It wasn't terribly unusual for a research assistant to come in early on a Saturday morning. Experiments were often an around-the-clock proposition, and the low person on the totem pole typically was stuck with the graveyard shift, making sure everything was running smoothly. Sterling himself had spent many late nights and early mornings mixing reagents and running gels. For a graduate student, it was a rite of passage. “Did you let her in?” Sterling asked.
“No, sir,” Carlton said, proud that he had at least gotten something right. “Chief Gaylor gave specific orders to keep the door locked.”
“What time did you get here?” Sterling asked, still writing in his book. Every detail added to the time line.
“A little after five this morning,” Carlton said. “The night commander sent me over as soon as I got to the station.”
Sterling looked at Wiley for an explanation. “Since no one had heard from the Professor by the morning shift, we decided to take some extra precautions. Typically, we'd let more time go by before officially declaring a missing person, but these weren't typical circumstances, especially with that prize your brother just won. We thought it best not to take any chances, so we had the campus security send someone over here right away.”
“Good thinking,” Sterling said. A look of contentment softened Wiley's rigid face as he snapped his head for a quick nod. “Well, let's see what's up.”
Carlton stepped aside to let Wiley and Sterling pass. As the door closed behind them, Sterling reached out and stopped Wiley from turning on the lights. He stood there quietly and slowly pivoted his head in the dark, trying to capture the essence of the spacious room. Unlike most researchers, who work away in anonymity, their work appreciated only by a select group of their peers, Wilson Bledsoe not only had made his mark in scientific circles but had crossed over into the broader public arena. Industry leaders recognized the importance of his research. On Wall Street, traders and analysts picked stocks according to a complicated algorithm Wilson had worked out that predicted how herds of animals will react to changes in environmental stimuli. The enormous size of Wilson's lab was only fitting.
Sterling and Wiley slowly walked along lab benches and tables piled high with slides and mounted specimens. An entire corner of the lab had been devoted to what looked to Sterling's urban eyes like otters.
At the back of the lab, Sterling spent a few more minutes in silence as he took in his brother's work space. Everything was so neat and shiny, all the way down to the microscopes perfectly aligned on the lab benches. He imagined Wilson striding down the aisles in his white lab coat, instructing his assistants, lending them a hand when they ran into problems.
“Clean enough to eat off the floors,” Wiley said, admiring his reflection in one of the countertops. “Your brother runs a pretty tight ship.”
“So I see,” Sterling said, wishing his own lab were half as organized. He carefully reached into a box and grabbed a couple of pairs of latex gloves, one for himself, the other for Wiley. This wasn't the same Wilson whose bedroom was always a mess, papers and books all over the house, his clothes remaining for days wherever he happened to take them off. His mother would always tell him, A great mind can't think clearly in a cluttered room. After all these years he had finally listened.
“Doesn't look like the place has been touched,” Wiley said.
“Looks that way, but too soon to say for sure, Lieutenant,” Sterling warned. “We don't even know what we're after yet.” Sterling walked over to a small metal desk in the corner. The computer screensaver had a family of owls sitting in a tree, their yellow eyes blinking. Every few seconds one would let out a screech, then dive to the ground and disappear off the end of the monitor. When the tree was empty, a whooshing sound could be heard, and the owls would fly back in a pack and reposition themselves on the branches.
“Technology is something else these days,” Wiley said. “I barely know how to turn the damn things on. Tickles the hell outta my kids. But they can do the damnedest things with those electronics, especially the younger ones. The other night they were talking to some students in Europe through the computer.”
“And that's only the beginning,” Sterling said, tapping the keyboard to get rid of the screensaver. The screen cleared and revealed pages where someone had downloaded information from the FDA's drug reference section. Sterling scribbled the URL address in his black book.
“I know the Professor has an expertise with animals,” Wiley said. “But what exactly does he do?”
“He's an animal behaviorist,” Sterling explained. He scrolled down the FDA's home page to see if anything caught his eye. “Some people call them ethologists. He observes animals in their natural environment.”
Sterling and Wiley continued to search the lab, carefully moving items for inspection, then putting them back in place. Finally they came to the door of Wilson's office and a sign that read CAUTION: WILD ETHOLOGIST ON THE LOOSE. This touch of humor wasn't the Wilson that Sterling remembered. Wilson had always been so serious, even when he wasn't working.
The door to Professor Bledsoe's office was unlocked, just as it had been for the last twenty years. He had always believed in an open-door policy, making himself available to his students and colleagues alike, whatever their problems, personal or scientific. Wilson wasn't like most laboratory directors, concerned strictly with the number of papers their assistants authored. Instead, Wilson stressed to his students that it was important to first get a handle on adult life; if they learned some science along the way, so much the better.
